


You Are the Call and I Am the Answer

by apocryphalia



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels can sense love, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale can sense Crowley's love, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, M/M, Magic, Minor Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Porn with Feelings, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2020-12-27 07:53:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21115319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocryphalia/pseuds/apocryphalia
Summary: It isn't fair, he thinks, that he can feel the warm radiance of Crowley's love, can bask in it the way Crowley's snake-self coils in a sunbeam, but the demon has been cut off from this wondrous feeling. It isn't fair that Crowley spent six thousand years waiting for Aziraphale, surviving only on a thread of hope, while Aziraphale knew well the depth of Crowley's feelings and still refused to let him know they were reciprocated.Aziraphale seeks a way to allow Crowley to feel his love, and Crowley learns just how much his angel truly cares about him.





	1. You Are the Night and I the Day

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this post](https://qorktrees.tumblr.com/post/188378766176/a-concept-angels-can-sense-love-and-aziraphale) by qorktrees on Tumblr.
> 
> Thank you to [Fandom_Lover_For_Life126](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fandom_Lover_For_Life126), [IDontHaveACleverQuip](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IDontHaveACleverQuip), and [AurigaCapella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AurigaCapella), all of whom looked over this and helped to improve it. Any remaining imperfections are my own.

_ And at last I know my love for you is here; _

_ I can see it all, it is whole like the twilight, _

_ It is large, so large, I could not see it before, _

_ Because of the little lights and flickers and interruptions, _

_ Troubles, anxieties and pains. _

_ You are the call and I am the answer, _

_ You are the wish, and I the fulfillment, _

_ You are the night, and I the day. _

_ What else—it is perfect enough. _

—D.H. Lawrence, "Bei Hennef"

"I wish you could feel it the way I can," Aziraphale says, almost sadly.

They are lying in bed, Crowley's long limbs tangled around Aziraphale, and the angel is very nearly overwhelmed by the love radiating off of him in waves. He feels a surge of adoration in his own chest, and the way it refracts off Crowley's own love, like a crystal in the sunlight, magnifies both of their feelings until it seems that the room is filled to the brim. For a moment, he fears that the walls of his flat and the bookshop below won't be able to withstand the force of their combined affections.

"'S fine, angel," Crowley mumbles in a voice thick with sleep, curling himself tighter around Aziraphale. "I know."

Aziraphale smiles down at Crowley and runs a hand through his hair, lightly scratching the demon's scalp until he drifts off to sleep. He retrieves his well-read first edition copy of  _ The Picture of Dorian Gray _ from the nightstand. He looks down at its pages for a while, but finds it hard to concentrate on anything other than the soft waves of emotion Crowley projects even in his sleep.

It isn't fair, he thinks, that he can feel the warm radiance of Crowley's love, can bask in it the way Crowley's snake-self coils in a sunbeam, but the demon has been cut off from this wondrous feeling. It isn't fair that Crowley spent six thousand years waiting for Aziraphale, surviving only on a thread of hope, while Aziraphale knew well the depth of Crowley's feelings and still refused to let him know they were reciprocated.

He wonders idly if there is a way to restore Crowley's ability to feel his love, and then he begins to wonder more seriously. He knows it won't begin to make up for six thousand years of his silence. But if there is a way, Aziraphale determines as he slips quietly down to the shop, he's going to find it.

***

Anathema jumps when she hears a knock on the door of Jasmine Cottage. She sets down her tea next to the latest issue of  _ New Aquarian _ on the kitchen table and heads cautiously for the door.

An older man stands on her doorstep, dressed in a Victorian-style suit with a shock of white hair. Something tugs at the edges of her consciousness, a nagging familiarity. She stares openly at him for a moment, struggling to place him, and then suddenly it all comes rushing back. The vintage car that hit her bicycle, the missing book, the air base. The great white wings hiding somewhere under that suit.

Suddenly, Anathema is aware of the overwhelming brightness of his aura, and she remembers that the man on her doorstep isn't a man at all.

He clears his throat awkwardly, and she realizes that she has been looking at him in silence for a beat too long.

"Hello, my dear," he says with a sheepish smile. "I know we met under rather unusual circumstances last time, but I… well, I was hoping I might ask your help with something."

Anathema feels a shudder run through her body.  _ Another apocalypse?  _ she wonders. She  _ knew _ she shouldn't have burned Agnes's second book of prophecy. Newt would be getting an earful about it when he got home.

"Nothing dire, I assure you," the creature on her doorstep continues quickly, apparently sensing her thought process. "Er… may I?"

"Oh! Right, yes, sorry," Anathema responds, stepping aside to let him into the cottage. "Can I get you anything…?"

"Aziraphale," he reminds her. "That tea of yours smells wonderful, if it's not too much trouble."

She busies herself making a fresh pot, trying to calm the inexplicable nervousness she feels at having this supernatural being fidgeting at her kitchen table.

"So," she asks when the tea is finished, sliding a mug across the table to Aziraphale, "what is it you need me for, then?"

Aziraphale laces his fingers together on the tabletop, twisting his hands. "Well," he begins hesitantly, "you remember my partner, Crowley?"

Anathema nods.

"After the, er, events here in Tadfield, we… sort of…  _ came together _ ." He places a heavy weight of meaning on the final phrase.

Anathema cocks an eyebrow, surprised less by the implication that two ethereal or occult beings were romantically involved than by the news that this was a recent occurrence.

"Anyway, the thing is, angels—we can sense love," Aziraphale explains. "But demons can't. We're of the same original stock, though, so Crowley had the ability a long time ago… I want to find a way to restore it."

"And you think I can help with that?"

Aziraphale nods. "I've been doing some reading. There's nothing I can do to reverse the effects of Crowley's fall, but I think a spell could be used to create a similar effect. I know you have some power of your own…"

Anathema considers this, sipping her tea, while Aziraphale wrings his hands and throws her pleading glances across the table.

"This spell," she finally asks slowly, "what would it entail?"

Aziraphale beams at her then, makes some complicated hand gesture that her eyes don't quite follow, and suddenly her kitchen table is stacked with gnarled old manuscripts with titles that seem to be largely in Latin.

The angel nearly glows with excited energy as he begins to explain his research, and Anathema can't help catching some of his infectious enthusiasm.

***

Crowley stalks through the shelves of the bookshop, glaring at the occasional spine like a houseplant that's begun developing spots. He halfheartedly straightens a few piles of books, miracles away some dust with a wave of his hand. He knows better than to attempt to  _ actually _ organize the chaos of the shop, but he can't suppress the itch in his limbs to keep moving, to  _ do something _ . He also can't bring himself to leave the shop.

Aziraphale was gone by the time he awoke in the upstairs flat, with no mention of where he had run off to, leaving Crowley reduced to pacing the shop and anxiously awaiting his return. He wouldn't be so concerned, he thinks, except that the angel has been strangely preoccupied for days, a distant look in his eyes while they mindlessly chat over lunch or lounge in the back room. And he apparently thinks Crowley doesn't notice that he leaves their bed every night while Crowley sleeps, instead of reading next to him as he used to. 

If Aziraphale is getting ready to bolt, Crowley almost wishes he would get it over with already.

With the shop now free of dust and as tidy as he dares to make it, Crowley gives up his pacing and collapses onto the sofa, snapping his fingers to summon a bottle of wine from the kitchen. 

It's not that he disbelieves Aziraphale's feelings for him. But Crowley has always known that his terrible need for the angel is greater than Aziraphale's own. The angel can literally sense love, after all, and Crowley has been hopelessly in love since nearly the beginning. For centuries, he assumed that his feelings were completely unreciprocated, as Aziraphale steadfastly ignored them. Now, in their new post-apocalyptic reality, he has come to understand that Aziraphale's fear—for his own safety, but also for Crowley's—prevented him from admitting to his affections. But Crowley also knows, deep down in his secret heart, that if the strength of Aziraphale's love equaled his own, he would never have been able to hold out for so long.

It doesn't bother him, truly, as long as Aziraphale is here with him, laughing over dinner at the Ritz and drinking into the night, reading in bed beside him and loving him in his own measure. Now that the nature of their relationship has changed, though, and Aziraphale has begun pulling away, Crowley fears they can never go back to the way things used to be. He doesn't think he can handle losing the angel completely.

Finally, his maudlin reverie is interrupted by the jingle of the bell over the front door. Crowley nearly sprints out of the back room, then stops short when he sees that Aziraphale is not alone. The young American girl from Tadfield has entered the shop behind him, the witch who hit his Bentley.

"Hey, angel," Crowley says in a practiced casual tone, awkwardly leaning on the doorframe as though he hasn't been waiting all morning for Aziraphale to return. "What's book girl doing here?"

"Anathema Device," she reminds him coolly, shrugging out of a hideous, blue and green checkered coat.

"I've had an idea," Aziraphale explains, crossing the room toward Crowley. "Anathema is here to help us with it. That is… if you're amenable."

Crowley stares at him dumbly as the angel reaches him and takes both his hands in his own.

"My dear, you know I can sense your love for me. It's the most wonderful thing, I wish I could possibly explain… I want you to understand."

"Understand what, angel?" Crowley asks quietly, heart hammering in his chest. He is suddenly, painfully aware of his lack of sunglasses, of Anathema still hovering near the door. Whatever is happening, he has the sudden suspicion he won't be getting out of it with his dignity intact.

Aziraphale answers, "I want you to know how it  _ feels _ , Crowley. I think I've found a way."

_ Oh.  _ "Oh. Aziraphale, really, it's okay. I don't mind, angel."

"Do you not want to try?" Aziraphale asks, squeezing Crowley's hands tighter, his face falling.

_ No _ , Crowley doesn't say.  _ No, I don't need a reminder of what I used to be, what I am, what you are. I'll take anything you can give me, but I don't need to feel the difference between us. _

Aziraphale is looking at him, pleading, and Crowley has never been able to deny him anything in six thousand years, so he shrugs, and asks: "How's this supposed to work, then?"

***

Crowley sits at the center of the circle on the floor of the bookshop, his hand in Aziraphale's. Anathema paces around the edges of the circle, lighting candles and reciting an incantation, but he can't understand a word of it through the pounding of blood in his ears. 

The room is swimming before his eyes and his lungs are heaving with unnecessary breath. His fingers are trembling within the angel's, his other hand balled into a fist on his knee. He looks up to see Aziraphale smiling over at him with hope and love in his eyes, and time stands still for a moment. A calm he's never felt before washes over him.

And then, all at once, he feels it.

It's almost like a tangible, physical force that Crowley can feel flowing over his skin, pulsing out from where his hand is still joined with Aziraphale's. He recognizes it immediately, as it is the same feeling that settled under his skin soon after Eden, somewhere between  _ I gave it away _ and  _ let me tempt you _ .

Crowley hears a strangled sob erupt from his own throat, though he's so overwhelmed with the force of his own and Aziraphale's emotions that it takes him a moment to realize he's crying. Aziraphale moves to pull his hand away, a startled look on his face.

"No!" Crowley cries out involuntarily. He pulls the angel back toward him hard enough that they both topple over onto the floor, and then he kisses him, hard and desperate. The familiar flavor of Aziraphale mingles with the salt of his own tears and the soft heat of the love he can now sense pouring from Aziraphale's mouth into his own.

Anathema quietly extinguishes the candles around the edges of the circle and then leaves them there in its center, slipping out of the shop door. 

Crowley is seized with the desire to touch every part of Aziraphale simultaneously, to feel the warmth and light of his love radiating out from under the skin. Each new point of contact burns with the heat of Aziraphale's love for him. It's intoxicating, and Crowley can't get enough of it. Even as the tears continue to stream down his face, he pulls the angel closer, and closer still, fingers frantically scrabbling at the buttons of his waistcoat, parting the shirt underneath.

He runs a hand down Aziraphale's bare chest, feeling the sparks emanating from the heart within. Aziraphale grabs his wrist before he can reach lower, and the wave of emotion that flows from his hand dances within Crowley's veins, traveling straight to the heart and pumping alongside the blood through his whole body. He trembles with the intensity of it, and a fresh sob racks his frame.

Aziraphale watches him with concern. "Crowley… are you okay, my dear?"

The dam breaks then, leaving Crowley clutching Aziraphale's fingers and sobbing incoherently: "You love me. You do, you love me as much… you do, you  _ do _ . Why did you never say?!"

"Oh, darling… I'm sorry." Aziraphale's fingers twitch within Crowley's, unsure whether to break or maintain contact. In the end, he leans in slowly, unbearably gently, to place a tender kiss to the demon's lips. "I do love you, my dear, so terribly much."

They stay there on the floor of the bookshop for what feels like an eternity, Crowley clinging to Aziraphale and crying quietly, Aziraphale running gentle fingers through his hair and down his spine. When Crowley finally allows them to be separated, he feels empty without the tangible sensation of Aziraphale's love, and drained by the intensity of his reaction.

He sleeps for nearly a day after, and Aziraphale reads beside him in bed again, although he is careful to leave a few inches of space between them.

It takes a few weeks for Crowley to adjust to his new ability. At first, he is still liable to burst into tears when Aziraphale kisses him or casually takes his hand over dinner or a walk in the park. But slowly, he adjusts to the sensation of Aziraphale's love and settles into the knowledge that it truly does equal his own. 

The first time Crowley takes his hand with nothing more than a small smile from the driver's seat of the Bentley, it is nearly Aziraphale who cries.

"You know, angel," Crowley says while they lie in bed later that night, "I never did say thank you."

"For what, my dear?"

Crowley leans up to kiss him, trying to pour every ounce of feeling he has into Aziraphale. "Letting me feel this. Finding a way."

  
"Oh, darling, of course. I love you."  


Crowley smiles and snuggles into the angel's side. "I know."


	2. Drown Within Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The effects of Anathema’s spell seem to be growing. Crowley and Aziraphale find themselves in mildly embarrassing situations as a result.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: The rating of this fic has been changed to EXPLICIT.
> 
> Chapter one was originally intended to be a one-shot, but I can’t quite get this story out of my head, so have some porn for now?
> 
> I have more ideas for this and I’ll be adding additional chapters down the line, although it might turn out to be a loosely plotted mess. (It will also be soft and sweet and probably have more sex in it, and you should still read it if you like.)
> 
> Thank you to [Gearsmoke](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Gearsmoke) for pointing out some odd phrasing and an awkward pants-related error, and to [Kazeetie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kazeetie) for giving me the encouragement I needed to actually hit publish on this thing.

_ And down his mouth comes to my mouth, and down _

_ His dark bright eyes descend like a fiery hood _

_ Upon my mind: his mouth meets mine, and a flood _

_ Of sweet fire sweeps across me, so I drown _

_ Within him, die, and find death good. _

—D.H. Lawrence, “Cruelty and Love”

Aziraphale is cautious with his touches for a while, always remembering Crowley overwhelmed and sobbing on the floor of the bookshop the first time he felt the angel’s love. At first, Crowley is grateful for his caution. He doesn’t especially enjoy bursting into tears in the middle of a London street, after all. As he gets used to the sensation, though, he begins to crave not just the casual touches he’s been without, but also the force of emotion he can now feel behind them.

It’s been over a month now since Aziraphale showed up with the witch, Anathema Device, and it’s been several weeks since the day Crowley first reached for Aziraphale’s hand in the car without incident. They are lying in bed, the demon curled against the angel’s side, just as they have on so many other nights, before the spell and since. Crowley reaches out a hand to stroke lazily down Aziraphale’s chest, feeling the soft, round flesh under his thin shirt and the soft, warm love under his skin. He cards his other hand into the angel’s hair and pulls him closer for a kiss. Aziraphale smiles against his lips and leans into him for a long moment. Crowley feels the steady beat of his heart against his own chest, the thin tendrils of emotion that crawl out from Aziraphale to wrap around his own limbs. He opens his mouth to deepen the kiss, chasing after the feeling. His skin begins to burn with something more than the echoes of Aziraphale’s love, an old familiar need. The hand still resting on the angel’s chest moves to creep underneath his shirt, to feel the softness of his skin and the fine golden hairs there, the warmth of his body and his love. But Aziraphale pulls away, as he has every night for weeks.

A different kind of heat sparks underneath Crowley’s skin. “What the  _ hell _ , angel?” he growls, launching himself upright.

Aziraphale blinks up at him, then averts his eyes as he pushes himself up to sit against the headboard. He at least has the decency to look ashamed, and Crowley feels the heat drain out of him as quickly as it appeared. His spine begins to settle into its habitually liquid state, but he resolves to keep it as straight as he can, unwilling to admit defeat so quickly.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says quietly, and a weight settles at the base of Crowley’s spine, begging him to give in and sink down to curl against the angel’s warmth.

“Aziraphale…” He sighs, leans his weight onto one long arm, and brings the other hand up to rub his eyes. “What’s the hangup here? I  _ know _ it isn’t that you don’t want me, so why can’t we have sex?”

“You don’t understand yet,” Aziraphale begins slowly, “how intense it can be. When we…  _ make love _ ”—Crowley wrinkles his nose—“the sense of love I get from you can be overwhelming, even for me. I’m afraid it will be too much for you, my dear.”

Crowley gives in to the demands of his spine and sprawls against the headboard next to Aziraphale, fiery hair spilling onto the angel’s shoulder. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” he asks, voice low. He places a hand back on Aziraphale’s chest, feels the staccato beat of his heart hammering away inside the ribs. The love he can sense rising from Aziraphale’s skin now has a different quality to it, one Crowley is shocked to recognize as desire.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Aziraphale tells him.

“You can’t,” Crowley says firmly, taking one of the angel’s hands in his own. “Even if it’s too much, if it’s overwhelming… it won’t hurt. It’ll be worth it, because it’s  _ you. _ ”

He concentrates on distilling the love and adoration and desire he feels, and channeling it through their clasped hands. Aziraphale gasps. “Is that… lust?”

Crowley grins. “You can feel that, huh?”

Aziraphale nods, eyes wide. Then he takes his hand back, raises both to place one on either side of Crowley’s face, and kisses him with more fervor than he has since their first time.

After a while, he pulls back. “Crowley,” he says urgently, breathlessly. “If it is too much… you must let me know.”

“I promise, angel. Just  _ don’t stop  _ unless I tell you to.”

He kisses Aziraphale again, hungrily, his head spinning with not only the physical sensation of the angel’s lips and hands, but his love, and now, their combined lust. The latter feeling spirals off his own skin, tangling with Aziraphale’s, a wholly different awareness than the sense of love he is now growing accustomed to. He is painfully hard already, dizzy with the knowledge of Aziraphale’s love and desire.

_ God, Satan, fuck, somebody _ , he thinks, no longer certain whether he is speaking out loud.  _ I would do anything for you, do you know that? _

His hands find their way under the hem of Aziraphale’s shirt once more, dancing softly along the waistband of his trousers. He straddles the angel’s hips as he pulls up, up, exposing the soft white skin of his stomach and chest. He leans forward once more, mouthing at Aziraphale’s jaw, his neck. Aziraphale moves to reciprocate, tugging gently at Crowley’s own dark cotton shirt, and the demon lets out an audible gasp.

Crowley feels like a live wire, nothing more than a conduit for Aziraphale’s love. It travels from the long fingers still resting on his angel’s collarbone, through the bone and sinew of him, and loops around again where Aziraphale’s own lightly calloused fingertips touch his spine. For a moment, he is overwhelmed with the sensation of it, and he distantly registers the concern that passes across Aziraphale’s expression.

His body moves without conscious input, consumed by a desperate need to feel more of Aziraphale, more of his skin, more of his love,  _ more. _ He rips the shirt over his head and blindly tosses it behind him, then kisses Aziraphale again, greedily, pressing all the sharp angles of his body into the angel’s softness. He feels the sharp tinge of desire once more in the emotion pouring from Aziraphale, tangling around his long limbs like ivy climbing ancient brick walls. 

Aziraphale moans against his hungry mouth, and the ivy tightens around his throat. He can barely breathe, and he finds that he doesn’t particularly care, forgetting that he doesn’t even need to.  _ Fuck, angel, _ he thinks he says, although it comes out a strangled, wordless growl.  _ You could discorporate me right now, right here, just like this, and I would fucking thank you. _

He tugs at the waist of the angel's trousers while his starving mouth moves lower, tasting the wild beat of Aziraphale's heart in his throat, the soft dusting of hair below his collarbone, the taut skin of one erect nipple. The ivy travels down Crowley’s body as he travels down Aziraphale’s, wrapping itself around his ribs, his hips, his legs, until he fears he won’t be able to move under its weight. The pressure rises in his chest, and in his cock, and he feels that he’ll burst with the myriad emotions flooding his skin-and-bones corporation.

“Aziraphale,” he manages aloud, breathless, against one hip. “I—you— _ fuck, _ I love you, angel.”

" _ Oh, Crowley, _ " Aziraphale replies, his voice equally strained. "I love you, too."

He pulls Aziraphale to the edge of the bed and sinks to his knees before him. He parts the angel’s knees reverently, like the pages of his own personal prayer book, and takes him into his mouth like an offering. The sound Aziraphale makes in response goes straight to his groin, and for a split second, Crowley fears that he will come right there, still in his silk pyjama bottoms. Sharp fingers grip the backs of Aziraphale’s thighs and Crowley simply breathes for a moment through his nose, desperately trying to keep himself under control.

Then, agonizingly slowly, he begins to move. His tongue presses against the underside of Aziraphale’s cock, savoring the bitter taste and the unique aroma of  _ Aziraphale _ , dust and ancient paper and something like cardamom, mixed with the intoxicating scent of sex. He licks up and down, taking in Aziraphale’s soft moans and the miniscule twitches of the organ under his tongue. The ivy continues to tighten around his face, his throat, his chest, his cock. He genuinely believes for a moment that he will discorporate on the spot, drown in the warm sea of Aziraphale’s love for him. Still, he craves more, always  _ more _ of Aziraphale, and instinctively he speeds his rhythm, hands still gripping Aziraphale’s thighs. He feels the rising tension in the flesh under his fingers and in his mouth, and knows what’s coming before the angel says it.

“Oh, Crowley,  _ ohh _ … My dear, I’m going to—”

Crowley hums against him, bobs his head up and down one last time, and then he is consumed by white heat. The force of six thousand years of love and secret longing and need hits the back of his throat with Aziraphale’s orgasm. His whole body pulses with it, and his vision goes dark as his own release overtakes him.

When he comes back to himself, he is lying on the floor next to their bed in sticky trousers, and Aziraphale is wrapped around him, stroking his hair and whispering words that Crowley can’t process yet. His face is wet, and he realizes he must have been moved to tears again by the strength of the angel’s love. Now, though, in Aziraphale’s arms, all he feels is warm, and content, and  _ oh god _ —so satisfied. In spite of himself, he feels his shoulders begin to shake, and he rolls to bury his face into Aziraphale’s chest. He can picture the worried look that must have taken up residence on the angel’s face, and he laughs still harder.

“Darling, are you—are you  _ laughing _ ?”

Crowley nods into his chest, still hysterical. “That was… ngk.  _ Fuck, _ ‘Ziraphale…” He untucks his head and reaches up to meet Aziraphale for a kiss, but after a moment he devolves into giggles once more against the angel’s lips. “I  _ came _ in my  _ pants _ .”

Aziraphale laughs then too, deep and throaty and full of love. He pulls Crowley tighter against him and presses a kiss to his temple. “Well, we’ll just have to make up for that next time, won’t we?”

Crowley wiggles his eyebrows, still grinning. “So there’s a next time now?”

“Oh, darling, of course there’s a next time.” He disentangles himself from Crowley and moves to rise from the floor, offering the demon a hand. A mischievous grin crosses his face. “Now, let’s get you out of those pyjamas and back to bed.”

***

The following evening, they are sitting across from one another in Aziraphale’s favorite sushi restaurant. The angel has finished his own food, and Crowley nudges the remnants of his dragon roll across the table with his chopsticks. He watches intently from behind his glasses as Aziraphale’s own set, held expertly between thick fingers, reaches out to pick up a piece. His gaze follows the food as it disappears behind plump lips, then stays fixated on the angel’s mouth while he chews it. The sounds coming from that mouth are very nearly obscene. His soft sighs and moans of contentment would be at home in their bedroom just as much as they are in the restaurant, and Crowley—not for the first time over one of their dinners—is seized by the desire to drag Aziraphale back to the former location.

Crowley is so wrapped up in imagining the things those soft lips and solid hands could be doing to  _ him _ rather than his sushi roll, and all of the ways he could use his own body to produce those sounds from Aziraphale’s mouth, that he doesn’t notice the angel has finished his food until he lays a hand over the one Crowley has resting on the table.

“Ready to go, my de—” Aziraphale stops, eyes wide. His mouth falls open slightly, and Crowley stares hungrily at his parted lips. The angel’s spine stiffens and a deep red flush begins to spread across his face. Through the haze of his desire, Crowley registers that something has changed. Aziraphale snatches his hand back across the table, and suddenly Crowley recalls his words from the night before:  _ is that lust? _

“Angel?” he inquires softly.

Aziraphale clears his throat, shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I, erm… I’m going to need a minute.”

Crowley’s eyes widen as realization dawns on him. “Are you…?” He inclines his head toward Aziraphale’s lap, a stunned grin spreading across his face.

Aziraphale nods, glaring across the table at him, although there is no real heat behind it. At least, not of  _ that  _ sort.

“Oh, angel, now we  _ have _ to leave,” Crowley says gleefully. Then he lowers his voice. “Unless you want me to get under the table…” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, still grinning over at the angel.

“ _ Crowley! _ ”

“All right, all right, but I’m not planning to shut up, so you’d better just miracle that hidden and come home with me already.”

With a final, furtive look around the restaurant, Aziraphale obliges, rising from his seat and heading quickly for the door. He keeps his situation hidden from passing humans as they walk the few blocks back to the bookshop, but does nothing to make it go away. Crowley walks slightly too close to him the whole way, taking every available opportunity to brush against his hand or his hip, enjoying the shudders that run through the angel and the sideways glares he receives each time.

***

The moment the bookshop door closes behind them, Aziraphale has Crowley pressed against it. He waves a hand vaguely behind them to draw the blinds and conceal them from curious passers-by, and then his lips are locked onto Crowley’s, tongue forcing its way hungrily into the demon’s mouth. His hands rove blindly over Crowley’s hips, his back, his stomach, desperately seeking contact with any part of Crowley he can reach.

The familiar sensation of Crowley’s love surrounds him, always more intense with physical proximity. But a new sensation also skitters across his skin, an electric heat that drives the hunger deep within him. Crowley wants him, Crowley  _ lusts  _ for him, and he has found himself suddenly able to feel it traveling out from the points where their bodies connect, winding around him as Crowley himself might have, all those centuries ago as the Serpent of Eden.

He presses in closer, lowering his head to nip at the demon’s neck, and he can feel the evidence of Crowley’s desire pressing against his thigh. He shifts slightly, spreading his legs to bring his own hardness into contact with the lump in Crowley’s trousers, and he feels the demon’s lust coil more tightly around him along with his answering shudder.

Crowley’s hands find their way between their bodies, deft fingers making quick work of the buttons of Aziraphale’s waistcoat and shirt. The angel stifles a moan against his collarbone as Crowley’s cool hands work their way inside his open shirt, brushing lightly over his nipples and winding around to dig slightly sharp fingernails into his back. Aziraphale pulls away to look into Crowley’s eyes and is met instead with impenetrable dark lenses. Crowley’s head tilts downward, obviously taking in the sight of his angel before him, bare-chested and rumpled, with a telltale bulge straining against the fly of his trousers. Aziraphale feels a shock of lust shoot up his arms from the place where his hands still rest on Crowley’s shoulders, and an altogether different thrill runs through him.

He has always known that Crowley loves him, of course, and the demon has always been willing to express that love physically. And Aziraphale has always desired Crowley. Before being confronted with evidence in the form of the metaphorical snake currently winding its way closer to his groin, though, Aziraphale did not even realize he doubted that this breathtakingly beautiful creature before him could possibly lust after his own corporation the same way that he had spent centuries desiring Crowley’s.

He lifts one hand from Crowley’s shoulder to pluck the sunglasses from his face, and his knees nearly buckle underneath him when he sees the same raw desire mirrored in those golden eyes that he can feel tingling against his fingertips. Crowley’s eyes flick down over his body once more, and Aziraphale brings his mouth crashing back up into the demon’s as a wave of lust washes over him. Whether it is his own, or Crowley’s, or a combination of both, he can’t tell anymore. He simply surrenders himself to the tide, scrambling to free Crowley from his shirt while his own clothing is pushed from his shoulders, dropping into a heap on the floor.

Somehow they make it into the back room of the shop without breaking contact, and collapse together onto the ancient sofa. Crowley sprawls back against one arm, and Aziraphale straddles his narrow hips, revelling in the friction of Crowley’s cock against his own, even with both their trousers still on and blocking closer contact. Crowley’s fingernails scrape along his back once more, scratching lightly at the points where his wings would manifest, as Aziraphale slides lower along the demon’s body, trailing kisses down his chest and stomach and biting gently at his sensitive nipples. The demon’s breathing picks up when he lowers himself off the sofa, pulling Crowley to the edge of the cushion, and moves to undo the fly of his jeans. The smooth scales of his lust glide over Aziraphale’s skin, and he feels his own arousal throb almost painfully in response.

He manages to unzip Crowley's skin-tight jeans and peel them off to free his erection, resting his hands on the demon’s thighs as he takes a moment to appreciate the sight and the sharp wave of desire that flows from Crowley in response to his angel’s gaze. Then Aziraphale takes him into his mouth, flicking his eyes up to watch through long lashes as Crowley’s head falls back against the sofa. The angel gleefully admires the long line of his neck, the faint sheen of sweat already beginning to form on his brow, and Crowley’s breathing hitches as though he, too, can feel the strength of the desire rising under Aziraphale’s skin.

_ Oh _ , Aziraphale realizes suddenly. He probably can. The thought sends a new thrill up his spine, and the serpent winds its way ever closer to his cock.

He returns his attention to the task at hand, sliding up and down the shaft of Crowley’s cock with his lips and tongue. He keeps one hand firmly planted on the demon’s inner thigh while he reaches below him with the other, slipping a finger inside. He moves in and out, up and down, at the same time and at the same devastatingly unhurried pace, listening to the ragged pace of Crowley’s breathing and his increasingly desperate moans. With each thrust of his finger and each bob of his head, a fresh wave of the demon’s lust crashes over him, and the serpent coils itself tighter around him. It’s almost overwhelming, and more intoxicating than any wine he’s ever tasted.

“Aaaah… angel,  _ please _ ,” Crowley whines, and Aziraphale slowly pulls off to look up at him. A decadent blush has spread along his chest and neck, his pupils have spread to take up nearly the whole of his gorgeous eyes, and his ribs heave with heavy, unnecessary breaths.

The angel rises from his knees to lean over Crowley, finally removing his hand to open his own fly and guide his cock into its place. The demon’s eyes flutter shut and he gasps as Aziraphale enters him.

“Look at me,” he commands. Aziraphale feels a rush of lust so powerful when Crowley obeys that he fears it will bring him to his climax without a single thrust. He leans in to kiss Crowley deeply, hungrily licking into his mouth as he begins to move. “You’re so beautiful like this, do you know that?” he asks, voice low as he pulls back again to meet the demon’s eyes. He rakes his gaze over the body below him, his hands keeping a bruising grip on Crowley’s hips while he rocks his own, driving himself in and out with deep, steady thrusts.

Crowley whines again as Aziraphale’s eyes lock onto his own, struggling to keep them open as the angel demanded. “You like this, don’t you?” Aziraphale purrs, drunk on the sensation of his lover’s desire. “You  _ want _ this. You want me.”

“Mmph…  _ yes _ , angel, yes, yes,  _ please _ …” Crowley groans in time with each thrust of Aziraphale’s hips, eyes rolling back in his head as he tries and finally fails to keep them trained on the angel. Aziraphale reaches a hand between them, takes Crowley’s cock and strokes in unison with his final thrusts. He can feel Crowley stiffen beneath him, can feel the serpent tighten around his throat as the demon lets loose a strangled cry of pleasure, and then the world goes dark around him.

He comes to collapsed on Crowley’s chest, his face squished between the demon’s shoulder and the back of the sofa. His trousers are still open, his spent cock crushed against Crowley’s hip, and there is a hand around his lower back preventing him from sliding to the floor, another stroking softly down his spine. Aziraphale moves to raise his head and feels Crowley relax underneath him. He lets out a soft chuckle, voice tinged with relief as much as amusement.

“Guess it’s your turn to pass out this time, eh, angel?”

Aziraphale huffs a soft laugh against his shoulder. He carefully lifts himself off of Crowley, tucks himself away, and settles himself on the other side of the sofa. He allows Crowley time to retrieve his trousers and struggle back into them before pulling the demon into his habitual place in Aziraphale’s arms. They stay there for a little while, Crowley quietly radiating love and affection while Aziraphale absentmindedly strokes his hair.

“Was that… is that what it always feels like for you?” the angel asks eventually.

“Mmm?” Crowley lifts his head lazily, half asleep against him. “Oh, probably not.”

“So… do you not normally sense lust?”

“Not like that. At least, not until recently.” Aziraphale regards him quizzically, face an open question. The demon sighs and continues, “With humans… I can feel their sinfulness in general. Lust, greed, envy… I can sense it enough to know which buttons to press, but not a  _ specific _ lust like what you feel for me.”

Aziraphale considers this. “But you  _ can _ feel  _ my _ specific lust?”

“I can now. I feel it in almost the same way I feel your love, just… it has a different edge to it.”

“The effects of the spell are expanding,” Aziraphale realizes. “And somehow it’s beginning to affect both of us.”

“I’m not complaining.” Crowley grins up at him. “Just try not to pass out on me next time.”

The angel laughs. “Same goes for you, my dear. If I recall, you were the one who did it first.”

Crowley scowls at him halfheartedly and then snuggles closer into his side. “‘M gonna pass out now, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Aziraphale simply smiles at him fondly and miracles his book into one hand, the other returning to gently stroking Crowley as his breathing slows and he drifts off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m also on Tumblr [@apocryphalia](http://apocryphalia.tumblr.com)! Come play with me!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also on Tumblr [@apocryphalia](https://apocryphalia.tumblr.com/)! Come play with me!


End file.
